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think I’ll call you Endymion instead of Algernon in future,” said Ricardo, with a loud laugh.
    For some moments Vereker sat in thought, and then rose abruptly to his feet.
    â€œDo you know, Ricky, when I hear of rags like the Sutton Stakes I long for an evening in company with Van Ostade’s Dutch boors. I want to sit in an old picture and laugh over my mug of ale.”
    â€œPosing again, Algernon, in spite of yourself, and pure cussedness at that! Besides, it’s completely out of fashion to hiccup the antithesis of beer and erudition or beer and art at the British public—except at the Universities. Even the Sussex literary school is as dead as Van Ostade. The idea that poverty implies robust virtue won’t wash in these democratic days. Give me the vivid amusements of the unorthodox rich. Money doesn’t smell, but those that lack it frequently do!”
    â€œQuite in your best vein, Ricky, but now for that lunch. My bag is packed and I start for Nuthill immediately after we’ve eaten. While I’m down there I want you to get in touch with Edmée Cazas.”
    â€œShe’s an expensive contagion,” interrupted Ricardo gloomily.
    â€œNever mind, I’ll stand the racket. Connect up. Keep in touch with her and get from her her version of this shooting of Sutton Armadale. I’ll bet she knows more than may ever be made public. With her hysterical desire to be interesting, you ought to have no difficulty in pumping her to a vacuum. I will run up and see you in a day or so, and I hope you’ll have something important to communicate. And now for grub!”

Chapter Three
    Half-way between Vesey Manor and the little, old-fashioned market town of Nuthill there stands a country inn called the “Silver Pear Tree.” Somewhere in one of those interesting volumes published by the Surrey Archaeological Society on the history of that charming county there is a pleasing story about how this country inn acquired its fantastic name, but Vereker was too delighted with the name to trouble about its history. History, even when it falls back on legend for lack of fact, is inclined to be prosaic, and somehow Vereker was in a mood to accept the “Silver Pear Tree” as too good for investigation. He had been shown his room and ordered tea, which was to be served in what was called “Ye Olde Coffye Roome.” He was obliged to smile on seeing this title freshly painted on the glass panel of the door of that apartment. For a few moments he was lost in amused reverie, and then quietly opened the door and entered. To his surprise, he found “ye coffye roome” occupied. In the most comfortable chair, by an open window, through which drifted the warm, flower-scented air of the August afternoon, lounged a bulky figure. On his entry, the figure moved, two powerful arms shot out and were stretched in lazy ecstasy; a pair of large grey eyes under heavy, bushy eyebrows slowly opened and were questioningly turned on him. With an agility amazing in so cumbrous a bulk, the figure sprang instantly to its feet.
    â€œGod bless my soul, Mr. Vereker!” came the exclamation.
    â€œAnd my soul, too, Inspector Heather!” returned Vereker, with genuine pleasure.
    â€œNo need to ask you what brings you down here,” remarked the inspector.
    â€œBeauty, inspector, beauty! I sometimes come down into the country in search of it. Doesn’t my old friend, Ralph—I mean Emerson, of course—say ‘we ascribe beauty to that which is simple; which has no superfluous parts; which exactly answers its ends; which stands related to all things; which is—’”
    â€œGood beer,” interrupted the inspector hastily.
    â€œAgreed. To quit fooling, I’m down here on this Armadale affair.”
    â€œNot a job for amateurs, Mr. Vereker.”
    â€œWhy call in the Yard, then? I have here in my pocket-book a cutting from the Daily Express . It is